“Because I don’t sell guns to kids. I don’t know what you’re going to do with it. What if you’re dumb? What if you accidentally blow your face off? I don’t want that coming back on me.”
“The whole point is that the gun can’t be traced. If it comes back on you, then you’re bad at your job.”
“It’s not my job. It’s just a side gig.”
“Are you going to sell me a gun or not?”
The man took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke in my face. “Are you planning to kill somebody with it?”
“None of your business,” I told him, trying not to cough. If I coughed, he’d have the upper hand in our little power struggle.
“You sure as hell aren’t planning to use it to shoot squirrels, so you’re either going to commit a murder, or you’re going to plant it on somebody to get them in trouble. Which is it?”
“How do you know it’s not just for self-defense?”
“Then why would it need to be untraceable?”
I honestly didn’t know who was winning the argument. “I can’t force you to sell me one. I’ll just take my business someplace else.”
“Good. Get out of my van.”
I reached for the door handle, hoping he would suddenly change his mind. He said nothing.
I really didn’t have another option. Finding this guy had been extremely difficult. The Internet didn’t exist back then, and in fact if somebody had described the wonders of the World Wide Web as something that would be available in my lifetime, I would’ve gaped at them in slack-jawed astonishment, and then laughed in their face for believing something so ridiculous.
I figured that a drug dealer would know how to get a gun. I didn’t know any drug dealers. I did, however, know a couple of older kids who I was relatively certain liked to smoke weed. (I didn’t know what marijuana smelled like, but I knew what it was. Those educational films we watched in class weren’t a complete waste.)
I paid them five bucks to give me the phone number of their dealer. I called him and asked if he knew how I could get an untraceable gun. He hung up on me. I called back later and a different person answered. I asked the same question, and while he didn’t know, he gave me the phone number of another pot dealer who might. I called that dealer, and he said that he had no idea and wouldn’t tell me even if he did.
So I called the other dealer back, and this time the first guy answered, and I apologized for bothering him and asked if he could sell me some marijuana (though, to make sure he didn’t suspect I was a fourteen-year-old with no marijuana experience, I called it “Mary Jane”) and also recommend a prostitute. He said to call him back in half an hour about the Mary Jane (I didn’t) but gave me the number of an affordable hooker. I called Candi-with-an-I and asked if she knew anybody who could sell me a gun, and she passed me on to Barbarella, who gave me the number of this guy in the van whose name I didn’t know.
It’s worth noting that I was so committed to acquiring this firearm that I barely thought about the fact that I’d spoken to two prostitutes, and my own sexual experience maxed out at one astoundingly inept makeout session in a dark closet at a birthday party.
The man didn’t try to stop me from leaving his van without purchasing an illegal weapon.
“I know who abducted the kids,” I said.
“What kids?”
“You haven’t heard about the missing kids?”
“Should I have?”
“It’s on the news.”
“I don’t watch the news. And I don’t like kids. For example, you’re a kid, and I don’t like you.”
I hated to blab my plan to a stranger, but it didn’t seem like he was going to budge otherwise. “I know who’s doing it, but I can’t prove it. I’m going to make him confess.”
“At gunpoint? That won’t hold up. People will confess to anything at gunpoint. You point a gun at me and I’ll tell you anything you want to hear. I’ll tell you I’m a Kenny Rogers fan.”
“You don’t like Kenny Rogers?”
“Nope. I’ll whack off to Dolly Parton, but I hate that country music shit.”
“I’m not going to make him confess at gunpoint,” I said. “I’m just going to make him confess. But if he tries to kill me, I’m going to kill him first. If I have to shoot him before I have proof, I don’t want anybody to trace it back to me. That’s why I can’t use one of my dad’s guns.”
The man nodded. “That makes sense. But it would be irresponsible for me to sell you a gun, knowing that you might kill an innocent man.”
“He’s not innocent.”
“You said you don’t have proof.”
“I have my own eyes. Being able to prove it isn’t the same as being positive.”
“You know what? Screw it. I’ll sell you a gun. There’s gonna be a surcharge, though.”
“What kind of surcharge?”
“The ‘chubby fourteen-year-old’ surcharge. It’s a new thing.”
“No. You said you’d sell me an untraceable pistol for three hundred.”
“And now it’s four hundred. That’s how the free market works. You’ll learn that someday when you get out of elementary school.”
“I brought the amount we agreed to over the phone.”
“Yeah, well, over the phone you messed with your voice to make yourself sound older.”
He had me there. I’d put a cloth over the mouthpiece.
“I only have three hundred dollars.”
“Then run on home and crack open your piggy bank, or ask your mommy for an advance on your allowance. Tell her the ice cream man raised his prices.”
“You’re an asshole,” I told him.
“Well, yeah, I could’ve told you that. Now are you going to make me wash out your mouth with soap?”
“I guess we’re done, then. You’re lucky I can’t contact the Better Business Bureau.”
“You know what? Three-fifty.”
“I literally only brought three hundred dollars. You know why? Because on the
